Well Done, Sister Suffragette
by BroadwayBaggins
Summary: After a women's suffrage rally in 1913, Emma Swan meets reporter Killian Jones. Partly inspired by the film Iron-Jawed Angels (and conversations on tumblr). Obviously non-magical AU


"And remember," Mrs. Regina Locksley's voice continued, carrying out over the excited crowd, "as Alice Paul said, there can never be a new world order until women are a part of it! Women _must vote!"_

The crowd erupted into cheers as Mrs. Locksley stepped down from her soapbox, signaling the end of the rally. Emma Swan cheered and clapped along with them, pushing through the crowd in order to join her friends as the crowd began to disperse. "Wonderful job, Regina," she said breathlessly as she finally made it to them, straightening the purple-and-gold sash she wore about her shoulder, proudly proclaiming Votes for Women. "Just excellent."

Regina smiled at her under the brim of her hat. "Thank you. We'll see if it actually makes a difference this time." She patted Emma's shoulder and turned to address the usual members of their committee, standing waiting their turn to congratulate their unofficial leader. "Our next meeting will be at the usual time tomorrow, and we can plan the march down 5th Avenue then. Emma, dear," she said, turning back to face her, "would you like a ride with me, or are you going to be all right getting home by yourself?"

"I should be fine," Emma assured her. "It's a fairly quiet crowd today, no trouble that I can see. The usual thugs must have turned their attention elsewhere. I don't think I'm in any danger. But thank you for your offer."

Regina smiled again, reaching out to pat Emma's shoulder once again in an almost motherly gesture. "We take care of each other here, Emma. I'll see you at my house tomorrow."

Emma nodded before saying goodbye to Miss Ruby Lucas and Miss Belle French, two of her other friends within the movement and turning to go. Most of the other women seemed to have already dispersed, hurrying home to work to do, to husbands and children and demands of life Emma couldn't even imagine having herself. If she hurried, she could make it home before it grew too dark—

She had just turned the corner when she slammed into another body, nearly knocked backwards from the shock. Instantly a pair of hands grabbed her by the upper arms to steady her, and she found herself looking up into an unfamiliar gentleman's face. "I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't see you there."

"No harm done, love. I should have been watching where I was going."

She studied him a moment before pointedly stepping out of his grasp, her brows furrowed. Emma had noticed him hanging around the outskirts of the rally during the speeches, clad in a dark suit and a festive boater hat, clutching a notebook which he scribbled in occasionally. A sensationalist reporter, no doubt, just waiting to put a terrible spin on the Cause. Emma had seen enough of them to last her a lifetime. "It really was my fault. I won't take up any more of your time. Excuse me," she said, trying to brush past him, eager to go.

"That was some speech," he said, making her notice his accent for the first time as he gestured towards the now-empty podium. Not American, then. English, or something of the sort—not that Emma cared. "Very moving."

"Mrs. Locksley is a very eloquent speaker, and a friend of mine. We're lucky to have her on our side."

"I'd say so. The name's Jones, by the way. Killian Jones," he said cheekily, using one finger to push the brim of his straw boater back from his, giving Emma a better glimpse of dark hair and deep blue eyes that were now grinning mischievously at her, as if this Killian Jones was the proverbial cat who had gotten the cream. "Reporter for the _Post."_

"Ah," Emma said vaguely, nodding, wondering how best to end the conversation.

He paused, waiting on her. "This is the part where you're supposed to give your name, love."

"So you can smear it in whatever article you're going to write extolling the dangers and evils of women's suffrage? No thank you."

He smirked. "Actually, I'm not allowed to give my own opinions in my articles. I try to present as unbiased a view as possible, unlike some of my other…" He grimaced as he tried to find the right word. "Colleagues."

"How very noble of you."

"None of this yellow journalism for me, spinning stories in the worst way possible just to sell more papers. It's not right, I say."

In spite of herself, Emma was almost impressed. "Good for you." He looked at her expectantly. "Oh, you wanted my name, didn't you?"

"Unless you wish for me to keep referring to you in my head as Sister Suffragette."

"It's Emma. Emma Swan."

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan." He smiled and held out his hand for her to shake. Emma took it with only a moment of hesitation. "And for the record, before you kick me to the curb, I do support what you're doing here."

She arched an eyebrow. "You support giving women the vote."

He nodded, giving a shrug. "I figure as long as women are expected to follow the same laws as everyone else, they should be able to have a say in the people who make those laws."

"I wish more men shared your sentiment. Maybe we'd be getting somewhere by now."

He grinned again. "I'm afraid men like myself are a rare breed, Miss Swan."

The churchbells began to chime, ringing the hour, and Mr. Jones sighed. "I have to meet my deadline," he told her. "Shall I mention you in my article? Golden-haired lass with a spark in her eye when she talks about her cause and, if I'm not mistaken, a bit of a temper?"

"No. But you can write about our march next week. The way I see it, there's no such thing as bad publicity."

"Many politicians would disagree with you."

"That might be the understatement of the century, Mr. Jones. But here, before you go…" Impulsively, Emma reached into her pocket and pulled out a purple rosette, also emblazoned with Votes for Women, which she pinned deftly onto his lapel. "You may not want to put your views in writing, but you should still feel free to show your support."

"I'll make sure to remember that."

"And will I see you at the march?"

"You might, Miss Swan. You might."


End file.
